


Rushin' to the Middle of Nowhere

by AetherSeer



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Flash Fic, Gen, Pittsburgh Penguins, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:21:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: It’s three in the morning. And truth be told, Mike was in no way prepared for this. Like, at all.In which Michael Latta is a low-level intelligence agent at a skeleton-staff outpost in the middle-of-nowhere Canada, and things take an … interesting turn.





	Rushin' to the Middle of Nowhere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunshinexbomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinexbomb/gifts).



> Thank you to elenajames and AthenaVine for taking on the job as my betas.

Truth be told, Mike was in no way prepared for this. Like, at all.

Mike doesn’t think anyone’s really prepared for every situation, no matter what Schmidty says about Boy Scouts. Schmidty’s not even here, so he can just fuck off with his non-existent helpful advice.

“Latts, you gonna just stand there? We need a sit-rep.”

Mike keeps himself from jumping at Holts’ voice echoing down the earpiece, but he’s sure his eyes have gone a little manic. And since he’s the one currently staring at a drenched Russian and a dripping wet, _very visibly pissed off_ Swede, he thinks he’s a little justified in his response.

“Uh, yeah. Let me get back to you on that,” he says, and yanks the little bud out of his ear. Bäckström’s even more intimidating up close, and Mike regrets interning for the CSIS right out of college more and more with each step.

“Do I even want to know?” he mutters to himself.

“I did not ask to work with _idiots,_ ” is his unasked-for response in perfect, if slightly accented, English. Mike takes a closer look and—

“Is that _Malkin?_ ” His voice goes embarrassingly high, but … the intelligence world’s been in a fucking frenzy for _weeks_ now. Malkin had up and disappeared like a fucking _ghost_ in the middle of an assignment with Ovechkin, who—while Mike’s never _personally_ encountered the pair, he’s read plenty of dossiers on the remnants of the KGB and what is now the SVR, and Malkin and Ovechkin rank up there with the best of the best in the foreign intelligence world.

Bäckström’s not impressed with Mike’s deduction skills, if the raised eyebrows are any indication, and Mike gets himself back under control. “Uh … why—what are you doing with him _here?_ ” he manages.

Bäckström rolls his eyes. “He’s defecting. To _Canada._ ”

Mike can just about taste the dryness of the desert with that statement. “Hang on,” he says, and fumbles to get his earpiece back in. “Did you—”

“MALKIN’S DOING WHAT?!” he gets back, and Mike physically winces. That … is not Braden on the other end. If he had to guess, that’s likely the dulcet (screeching) tones of a very angry Sidney Crosby, field agent. Holts must’ve patched him in once he heard Mike say Malkin’s name. Why Crosby’s awake and waiting by the phone at what-the-fuck o’clock in the morning, Mike has no idea. Why Holts feels the need to contact Crosby about Malkin, well, everyone who has a pair of working eyes and ears knows why Crosby’s watching the Malkin situation so closely.

Mike’s so not qualified to deal with this. He resists the urge to bang his head against the (very convenient) wall. “Defecting, if Bäckström’s telling the truth. What do you want me to do with them?”

“Keep him there. Don’t move. And keep Bäckström there, too. We’re coming to you.”

Mike’s earpiece crackles and then goes dead. He looks at Bäckström. Bäckström looks back. “There’s a storage closet in the back?” he offers.

In lieu of answering, Bäckström just hefts Malkin’s weight up and drags him inside out of the rain, leaving Mike staring at the streetlight across the parking lot. What even is his _life?_ Mike glances back through the door—Bäckström’s heading the right way, at least—and then checks the street again. But no one comes this way, especially at _three in the fucking morning._

 

Crosby’s not alone when he storms in at half-past five. He’s brought fucking _Mario Lemieux_ with him. And a man Crosby briefly introduces as Gonch, but it’s _Mario fucking Lemieux_. Mike has no regrets about interning with CSIS. None. At all. Nope.

Mike shows the trio the way to the storage closet turned makeshift cell. He hangs around awkwardly until twin impassive stares from Crosby and Bäckström let him know a retreat back to the front is his best option. Yeah, he’s not gonna argue that one. Holts laughs at him from behind his magazine, feet up on his desk and still managing to look more put-together in jeans and a button-down than Mike does in a tux.

Mike spares a thought about making coffee, but the machine’s been wonky for ages and the sludge it manages to cough up is barely edible enough for Mike to choke down on a particularly bleary 4 a.m. shift. He resorts to filling out piled up acquisition forms (what the fuck is _that_ supposed to even say, Laich) while he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

Jesus fuck, it’s been like three hours. And there’s like two chairs in that room. Come to think of it, at least one of them has a broken seat, and the other … anyway. Mike ventures down the hallway once, and thinks better of it when he meets a visibly exhausted Bäckström halfway. Mike ‘eeps’ and makes like he was heading to the bathroom. Even bedraggled and with bags starting to form under his eyes, Bäckström’s like five times as terrifying as Mike could ever _hope_ to be.

 

Mike’s shift ends at nine, and he clocks out without knowing anything more than he had at three, which is to say not much. He has an idea how Bäckström ended up at Mike’s little outpost in the back end of fucking nowhere, Canada, given that he showed up with _Evgeni Malkin_ , but he’s not gonna speculate too hard on that. That leads nowhere Mike wants anything to do with.

Mike fills Beags in on why they have a Russian in the storage room so Beags doesn’t freak out (unlikely, since Beags is like the calmest person Mike knows— _including Holts_ ) when Crosby’s group finally emerges, and faceplants on his couch the minute he gets back to his shitty little apartment. At some point, he reckons, details will filter down through the grapevine. Spies, he’s found, are absolutely _terrible_ about gossip.

 

It doesn’t filter down through the grapevine. It explodes.

The government puts out a statement about taking in a former foreign operative and offering amnesty in exchange for information. And then some small-town reporter at the Saskatoon StarPhoenix, of all places, puts the pieces together. The Canadian media goes absolutely _insane_.

The American media’s even worse. Mike makes a point of reading the more batshit theories aloud in the office over the next few weeks, much to Holts’ quiet amusement. It ranges from the speculative— _Malkin a Double-Agent All This Time?_ —to the absurd— _Malkin Defects to Protect Secret Love-Child, Is Russia Planning to Melt the Polar Ice Caps?_ —to the hint-of-truth— _20 Staggering Facts  About Russia’s Nuclear Program That Should Make You Nervous, Malkin to Join Canada’s Intelligence Network, Canada Moving Into World’s Elite League of Superpowers, Russia Scrambling to Conceal Military Secrets in Wake of Agent’s Defection_.

Rumors are Ovechkin’s being watched like a hawk by his own superiors. It’s to be expected, course. Malkin was his partner at the time of his defection. Anything Ovechkin knows, Malkin likely knows, and now Canada knows. That does leave a nice hole in Russia’s intelligence, though, and Mike’s sure Canada won’t be the only country taking advantage.

No one seems to have picked up on the Swedes’ contribution to Malkin’s flight from Russia and subsequent arrival in Canada. Mike’s not terribly surprised. After all, if they haven’t picked up on the fact that this particular outpost serves as the unofficial drop spot for what seems to be the entire North American KSI contingent, Mike’s not going to be the one to tell them.


End file.
